


Show Me Your Fangs

by commoncomitatus



Category: The New Legends of Monkey (TV)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Facing Fears, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24678445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: Heavily inspired by BashfulTenrec's "Rogue Transformations".  After regaining control of his transformation powers, Monkey turns them to a noble cause... with varying degrees of success.
Relationships: Monkey King & Sandy (The New Legends of Monkey)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rogue Transformations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759384) by [BashfulTenrec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BashfulTenrec/pseuds/BashfulTenrec). 



> Taking a breather from a never-ending angstball of a WIP, and this happened. No idea if it counts as 'light-hearted' by anyone's standards except my own, but that was definitely the intent.
> 
> A great big massive thank-you to BashfulTenrec for gamely allowing me to play around in the world of their brilliant fic, ["Rogue Transformations"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759384). Definitely advisable to read that one first!

***

He didn’t give it any thought.

Not until some weeks later, anyway. Not until he’d gotten enough of a handle on his transformation powers that the idea of coming clean to the others didn’t fill him with dread. Not until Tripitaka used her many monkish charms — namely, yelling at him until he had no choice — to convince him.

“Just tell them already,” she’d begged him, after the fourth or fifth time they grilled her about his ‘mysterious disappearances’. “Besides, don’t you want the chance to show off?”

Maybe he did, at that. After all, where was the fun in sneaking into Pigsy’s things in the middle of the night, stealing his secret food stashes and wreaking all sorts of mayhem, when the big lug didn’t even know it was him?

So he mulled it over for a few days, and then a few more, until Tripitaka stopped yelling and started giving him the pleading starry-eyed look instead. And then — only partly because of the latter thing, and definitely more because of the annoying-Pigsy thing — he grudgingly made up his mind to come clean.

It wasn’t quite the big dramatic fanfare he thought it would be.

“So,” he announced, puffing up his chest with great importance, “I got my transformation powers back.”

Pigsy, being rather preoccupied with scraping the bottom of his bowl for the dregs of the evening meal, shrugged and said, “Thanks for sharing.”

Sandy, being rather preoccupied with nothing in particular, said, “Oh.”

Monkey ground his teeth. “Okay, so you clearly didn’t hear me. I said, I got my—”

“Yeah, we heard you.” Broodily accepting that he would be gleaning no more food from his bowl that night, Pigsy sighed and tossed the thing aside. “Happy for you, mate. Seriously. But what’s it got to do with the rest of us?”

Tripitaka, looking maddeningly like she was trying not to laugh, volunteered, “We’re a team.”

“Right. Because nothing says ‘team spirit’ like this one—” He jerked his thumb at Monkey. “—weaselling his way out of laundry duty for the third time in a row.”

Monkey opened his mouth to counter that unfair and — okay, _mostly_ — unfounded accusation, but Tripitaka cut him off with one of her patented ‘this isn’t the time’ warning looks.

“We all need to be familiar with each other’s strengths and weaknesses,” she pointed out, to all three of them. “What if he transforms into a bee in the middle of a fight and you swat him?”

Pigsy broke into a broad grin. “Now, there’s a delightful image.”

“Forget it,” Monkey snapped, getting annoyed now. “If they don’t want to bask in my glory, why am I even wasting my time on this? It’s not like either of these idiots would ever appreciate real talent, anyway...”

Sandy straightened up, eager to contribute. “I’m sure we would if we saw it,” she chimed in, no doubt thinking she was being helpful. “Just be sure to point out the exact moment you want us to applaud, so we know.”

Monkey threw up his hands. “This is what I have to work with.”

“She’s just trying to help,” Tripitaka said, trying without much success to smother a giggle. “I’m serious, though: I really think the three of you should spend some time training together. You’ve got this amazing new talent in your arsenal—”

Monkey preened. “You see?” he sneered at Pigsy. “ _Amazing_.”

Tripitaka, clearly looking for an excuse to burst his ego-bubble, rolled her eyes. “You’ve got this _interesting_ new talent in your arsenal,” she amended pointlessly. “It would be a shame not to put it to good use, right?”

Always eager to do Tripitaka’s bidding, Sandy nodded like an over-excited puppy.

Pigsy, being somewhat less eager to do anything that involved exertion of any kind, only groaned.

“Fine,” he griped, glaring daggers at the monk. “But he’d better be housebroken.”

Monkey, by far the most mature and intelligent of the three gods, didn’t dignify that with a reply.

*

It wasn’t, he had to admit, the worst idea Tripitaka had ever had.

After three unexpectedly productive sparring sessions — including one where he mastered two transformations he hadn’t attempted before — Monkey had to admit that the little fake-monk knew a thing or two about getting the best out of her companions.

Not that he’d ever say so to her face, of course. Only one of them was allowed to be insufferable at a time, and it wasn’t her turn for another six months.

He learned a few useful things about his fellow gods as well. For example, that Pigsy could wrestle lions and tigers and bears to the ground without even breaking a sweat but wouldn’t go within a dozen leagues of snakes or scorpions—

(“Venomous little buggers,” he grumbled.

Tripitaka quirked a bemused brow. “You know it’s just Monkey, right?”

“That’s _more_ reason to be wary, not less!”)

—or that Sandy felt a kinship with small downtrodden rodents of all kinds but cringed and cowered from even the most harmless, innocent-looking puppy.

Some of this was new and useful information. Some of it, not so much.

The snake-scorpion-creepy-venomous-crawlies thing, he cheerfully filed away under ‘useful tricks to use against Pigsy’. Always good to have a few more notes for that particular folder, right?

The dog thing...

It wasn’t an issue. Except when it was.

The issue, specifically, being that he kind of not-so-secretly enjoyed spending time in his ever-growing collection of canine forms.

Beyond the training stuff, even. 

The sleek silken fur suited him well, he felt, and he relished the extra attention it earned him from Tripitaka and whatever hapless traders they met on the road.

(Not to mention the free snacks!)

Even Pigsy found it hard to stay angry with him once he slipped into Adorable Wide-Eyed Puppy Mode and started wagging his tail. Monkey had gotten away with many a night of mischief since learning that one, and if that wasn’t reason enough to keep doing it, he didn’t know what was.

It was useful, he insisted. The part where it got him out of trouble and earned him food scraps and ear-scratches was just a convenient bonus.

Sandy wouldn’t go near him, though.

She didn’t complain, exactly — but maybe that was just the way she was; he couldn’t really remember her ever complaining about anything — but she kept her weapon tight in her hands whenever he made himself hound-shaped, and kept as far away from him as she could get until he shifted back.

It wasn’t like it bothered him or anything. It just...

Well, okay, so maybe it bothered him a little bit.

And maybe sometimes more than a little bit. Like the long dark nights when it was really cold and their moth-eaten blankets just weren’t cutting it, when he made himself into the biggest and fluffiest pup he could manage, when Tripitaka was all curled up in his fur because it was warm and comfortable, and even Pigsy had to admit — grudgingly and grumpily, of course, but still using his haunches as a pillow — that maybe the transformation thing had its uses after all.

(It was always especially vindicating when even Pigsy admitted that.)

Not Sandy, though. No matter how cold it got, no matter how soft and warm and comfortable he made himself, she still wouldn’t go near him. All night long, she’d sit there shivering and miserable on the other side of the fire, as stubborn as an ox — and Monkey knew exactly how stubborn those things could be, after one of his earlier experiments left him stuck as one for two full days — and just as stupid.

It wasn’t really an issue — let her be as stubborn as she wanted, why should he care? — but for the niggling, nagging corner of his mind that said it kind-of-sort-of had an idea of where some of that that stubbornness came from.

Not a good place.

A really not-good-at-all place.

And if he was right....

(Which, okay, maybe he wasn’t...

But when did that ever happen?

And if he _was_...)

Then maybe it kind of was an issue after all.

*

It wasn’t that he cared, of course.

It was just that he knew Tripitaka would care if she knew about it, and he wasn’t sure if it was his place to tell her. So obviously the whole stupid mess fell to him.

Something like that, anyway.

He picked his moment very carefully. Biding his time, holding out for an opening when Pigsy and Tripitaka weren’t around, when they’d wandered off into the nearby forest to forage for berries and fruits, when he and Sandy had the whole campsite to themselves, all peaceful and quiet and private.

Contrary to popular opinion, he wasn’t completely insensitive; he could be tactful if the situation called for it.

He didn’t really know yet, if this one called for it or not, but experience had taught him it was smarter to be careful than live to regret it later. Especially with Sandy, who could be savagely unpredictable even on her good days.

He waited until she was sort-of occupied, poking at the fire with a stick and peering into the flames like she was divining some deep, dark secret. The distraction was a useful tool: a buffer of sorts, it gave her an escape, a means of ignoring him without any hard feelings.

“So,” he said, as she bent forward to hold her hand over the blaze. “Dogs, huh?”

On the surface, as expected, she gave no response. But Monkey was as observant as a god could get, not to mention he knew what he was looking for: the sudden tension in her spine and shoulders, so subtle it would surely be imperceptible to a less perfect pair of eyes, spoke volumes.

“Yes, Monkey,” she said, a little too coolly. “We’re all very happy you have your powers back.”

“Really?” He could play it cool too, he thought, and a whole lot better than her. “Because I’d swear you think I’ve got the plague or something, the way you won’t go near me.”

She lifted her head, scowled for about half a second, then turned back to the fire. “Ridiculous.”

“Well, yeah.” No sense in denying it; she would know he was only humouring her. “But ridiculous as it is... you know it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, right? We’ve all got our weird little freak-out stuff. I mean, not _me_ , obviously...”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

“But the others,” he pressed on, determined. “You know, Tripitaka still gets all squirmy when I do the rat thing—” He wiggled his fingers, mimicking the transformation without having to actually spend any effort. “—so you know she’d understand.”

Sandy made a small, strangled sound, then went very still.

“False equivalence,” she said in a raspy sort of whisper, like she really thought he’d have any idea what those words meant. “Tripitaka only finds rat-you unpleasant to look at. Much like the rest of us find normal-you.”

He snickered, unoffended. “You know you love me.”

“Hmph.”

Still, she allowed the ice-breaker to thaw her out a little. Monkey waited, with what little patience he possessed, while she slowly unfurled and unclenched. Bit by bit, piece by piece, slowly, slowly, oh so painfully slowly. Sometimes breaking through to her was like unravelling a single thread from a gigantic sweater: endless and exhausting and usually all for nothing.

Finally, after a lifetime of not-actually-patience-at-all on Monkey’s part, she spoke up again.

“I mean to say,” she said, with her usual excruciating carefulness, “that Tripitaka’s discomfort is entirely superficial. She dislikes rats for their appearance, yes? But she’s never been bitten by a rat. Never been hunted by one, never been cornered or trapped or—”

She stopped. Tense, breath held.

Then, like the bursting of a bubble, she deflated and turned her attention back to the fire. If not for the rapid blinking and the nervous swallowing, Monkey might almost think she’d forgotten they’d been talking at all. She did that sometimes, drifting off in the middle of a conversation, disappearing inside her own head for no reason at all and reemerging hours after everyone else had moved on.

Not this time, though. Her body gave her away, even as she tried to hold it in stillness. Bad memories, shoved back into their dark, dusty corners; Monkey knew that feeling all too well.

“Okay,” he said, understanding too that she wouldn’t thank him for drawing attention to it. “Fine. So maybe it was a false... what was that again?”

“Equivalence. A flawed comparison.” Her jaw was impossibly white; her eyes, reflecting the fire, darkened. Then, quietly, “You should know that.”

Monkey got the feeling she was talking about more than the definition of her stupid smart-words.

“I’m just saying,” he pressed, as determined as she was stubborn. “It’s kind of silly, being all coy and weird about it, when you know it’s really just me. You know I’d never...”

He trailed off, let her fill in the blanks herself, if she cared to.

“I do know that.” Maybe so, but she still wouldn’t look at him. “That’s enough now, Monkey. Talk about something else.”

Monkey being Monkey, the dismissal only made him more determined.

He’d committed to the thing now, decided on a course of action. If she knew him even the tiniest little bit, she would know that he wasn’t about to let it drop now. He hadn’t even gotten started yet. 

Still, he gave her a moment before pressing on again. Fair enough if she needed one, and he wasn’t completely heartless. He didn’t want to stir up old pain or whatever, only stop her from sulking and cringing away from him every time he wagged his tail.

(Again, not because he cared. It just made him look bad.)

So he waited a minute, two minutes, then three. Long enough that he started to worry a bit about the others coming back and cutting the thing off before he could pitch it. So he watched her watching the fire, waited until she drew a breath that didn’t sound quite so laboured, and then—

“We’ve been working on it, you know.”

Sandy blinked, thrown. “You've what?”

Monkey gave an affable wave. “Me and the monk. The rat thing. You know?”

It was mostly a lie, though it was for a good cause so he doubted Tripitaka would mind. The little monk was getting better at handling his various rodent forms, more comfortable knowing that it was really him underneath all those squirmy tails and tickly whiskers. They’d experimented a little bit together, she learning how to handle rodent-him without cringing, he exploring her scarf and the not-at-all-immodest parts of her robes.

Nothing anyone would really call ‘working on it’, in truth, because there was no need. Sandy was right about that part, at least: Tripitaka only really found his various rodent forms disconcerting on a surface level, and Monkey’s innate charms — even with whiskers and fur — were usually enough to assuage most of her discomfort. So long as she knew with surety that it was him, she had little trouble handling and engaging with him.

Still, false or not, the equivalence seemed to catch Sandy’s attention. She sat up a little straighter, turned to look at him and asked in a tiny, hopeful voice, “You have?”

Monkey fought to keep from grinning. “Sure. She knows it’s a smart idea to familiarise herself with all my awesomeness, even when it takes a shape she doesn’t enjoy.”

Okay, so maybe that was a bit much.

Definitely a bit much, if the look on Sandy’s face was anything to go by. She narrowed her eyes, then said, rather flatter now, “Really?”

“Yup.” He preened, trying to sell it. “So, you know, if you ever feel like working through your dog stuff or whatever, I have experience.”

He doubted the idea of experience alone would win her over. But the idea of experience specifically with Tripitaka, maybe a little more so. Sandy doted on the little monk, worshipped her every move, and while Monkey could certainly understand that impulse, it often made her easily manipulated.

Like now.

“Hmph,” she said again. Then, very slowly, “I’d like to see your credentials.”

Monkey laughed.

“I’ll get Tripitaka to write up a letter of recommendation,” he suggested. “That good enough for you?”

“No.” As usual, she was very serious, even in the face of humour. “I don’t want her to know about this.”

 _Ah-ha_.

Smart choice, then, approaching the subject when they were alone. He turned that over for a moment in his head, the sort-of not-quite confession, then shrugged and rolled with it, like it meant nothing.

“Whatever,” he said, cool and casual. “Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it, then.”

Sandy studied him for a moment, long and hard. Head tilted, expression sober, she looked like she was sizing up a demon in battle, or trying to figure out whether one of Pigsy’s meals was in fact edible.

Then, at last, she offered a minute nod.

“Yes,” she said softly, as though to herself. “I suppose I’ll have to do that.”

Monkey grinned. Victory!

“You won’t regret it,” he whooped, only a teensy bit smugly.

Framed by firelight and the tangles of her hair, Sandy’s expression made it clear that she already did.

*


	2. Chapter 2

*

The Master had taught him patience and kindness in all things.

To approach all moments as opportunities for growth, to realise that even a teacher — indeed, even a Master — always had more to learn from his students than they did from him. That it was a blessing to hold knowledge, a privilege to impart it, and a precious, beautiful gift to be able to share it. That the greatest, most important lessons could only be learned slowly, gradually, and with great care.

Monkey did not roll that way.

The next time he and Sandy were alone again, he waited all of three seconds, flashed the tiniest hint of of a grin — the only warning she got — and then immediately bounded towards her, transforming in mid-air into the biggest, fiercest, meanest-looking guard-dog he could manage.

It was a lesson, all right. For both of them.

Monkey had seen all kinds of fear in his life. In humans, in demons, even occasionally in gods. The good, the bad, and the downright mean, he’d seen enough to know the subtle little differences between them, to recognise one or another at a glance.

Human fear: raw and helpless, like they knew it was the only weapon they had against a world loaded against them.

Demon fear: arrogant and prideful, tremors between their teeth as they smiled and pretended they weren’t terrified.

God fear: stoic and steadfast, like the wrongly convicted facing the noose, resolved to meet their fate with dignity.

The rarest kind of all, god fear, because what did they have to fear from anyone?

That was what he expected from Sandy when he shifted. God fear, maybe a touch of demon fear after all those years of being treated like one. No trace of human fear, no trace of weakness, he expected her to face him with clear eyes and her weapon held up.

He expected the same fear he’d got from her the day they first met in the sewers of Palawa: him with his staff pressed to her neck, her pulse hammering against his fingertips. He knew that she was terrified, but she wore it with dignity, with power. Acceptant, even of the worst.

None of that now, though. No dignity, no power.

Her eyes locked on his, her weapon up; these he expected. But the way she held her body, contorted in self-protection, the way she bared her teeth, not in a smile or a stammer but in a snarl...

For a second, it was nothing he recognised at all.

Then he felt his hound’s hackles rise, the beast’s howl rising up in his chest as his new body’s instincts took over, recognising weak prey, and he realised what it was, what he was seeing in her.

Not god fear, not demon fear, not even human fear.

 _Animal_ fear.

There was nothing in the world more dangerous than that; this Monkey knew from experience. He’d taken their shapes, felt their emotions, their heartbeats, their instincts. He knew how deadly they could be when they felt threatened, when they were—

Her words came back to him, echoed by the snarls in her throat: _hunted, cornered, trapped_...

His powers, seemingly as horrified as he was, abandoned him.

A roar and a whimper, and suddenly he was sprawled out on his side, back to his perfect, handsome — only slightly humiliated — self.

He jumped up to his feet, dusting himself down and tossing his hair, like he’d intended it that way the whole time, then whirled around to get a proper look at her.

Wide, wild eyes. Crouched, weapon in hand, staring at him like she expected him to come at her again, like she expected him to pounce.

There was no trace of the god he knew, the competent warrior who could lay an army of demons to waste in the blink of an eye, the friend he would trust with his life — with Tripitaka’s life, even, if he himself was out of commission — without a second thought. No trace of his weird-but-tough companion, no trace of anything.

She just crouched there like he’d knocked her down, paralysed and shuddering, staring at him without really seeing him at all.

Monkey cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, very slowly. “Guess that’s a ‘no’ on jumping in at the deep end, huh?”

*

The next time they tried — some days later, after much coaxing, grovelling, and sort-of apologising — he went for the opposite approach.

Monkey wasn’t really big on the whole ‘cute and cuddly’ thing, but he tried his best for her sake, pouring out all his massive, terrifying power into the tiniest, fluffiest, most harmless puppy-shaped puffball he could think of.

It was, quite frankly, a challenge; a physique as flawless as his did not take kindly to being squeezed into something so small and inoffensive. Still, he did his best, and thus he was:

Tiny. Fluffy. Puffball.

Sandy stared down at him, stone-faced, still clutching her weapon tightly with both hands.

“No,” she said flatly.

Monkey whined, a pitiful little squeak of a sound that he hoped would come off as encouraging.

Sandy glared. “ _No_.”

He shuffled forward on his pudgy little puppy-feet, and attached himself to her boot. Her features twisted, a flicker of amusement that lasted barely a fraction of a second, replaced immediately by mistrust, suspicion, and thinly-veiled horror.

She shook him off, twitching like he’d taken a bite out of her.

“I said ‘no’, Monkey!”

Frustrated, he shook out his fur and turned back into himself.

“Seriously? Even puppies?”

She gripped her weapon a little tighter. “ _Especially_ puppies.”

He decided not to ask.

*

They made three more attempts, with varying degrees of no-success.

Monkey tried everything he could think of. Fierce, friendly, furry, fluffy, fuzzy... he even took a reluctant turn as a mangey old stray with bad teeth and a crooked leg.

Nothing.

Fear, mistrust, suspicion. Occasionally frustration, though he suspected that last was aimed more at herself than at him. But always the same results: she froze up like a rabbit in the path of a speeding cart, and that was all the reaction he could drag out of her. She wouldn’t engage with him, refused to put her weapon down, barely even moved until he turned back into himself.

It was infuriating.

At the end of the third session, he threw up his hands and yelled, “Are you trying to make this impossible for me?”

The instant he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing. _For me_ , like he was doing all this for his own stupid benefit.

She fixed him with a tired, miserable look, and said, “It’s not much fun for me either, Monkey.”

Fair point. He reined in his frustration, his impatience.

“It’s like you’re not even trying. Don’t you want to...” He floundered, trying to find a tactful way of phrasing himself. “...to not be like _that_ any more?”

“It wasn’t a concern,” Sandy pointed out, “until you decided that being the family pet was your favourite new pastime.”

Monkey spluttered his indignation. “It’s not my fault the others find it warm and comfortable on the cold nights! Maybe if you actually put some work in and got over this stupid issue of yours, you’d see why.”

“I do see why.” She’d gone very quiet now; Monkey suspected he’d crossed a line. “And I hope they continue to enjoy your warmth and comfort. Certainly no-one’s cheering about your personality of late.”

She continued to stare at him for a long beat, no doubt expecting an apology.

Monkey crossed his arms, holding his ground.

Sandy sighed, then, and shook her head. Then, without another word, she spun on her heels and stalked off.

*

The next morning, over breakfast, Tripitaka said, “You two seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”

Never one to let someone know when they caught him off-guard, Monkey flashed her his best disarming grin.

“Jealous, monk?”

Immune, as always, to his charms, Tripitaka only rolled her eyes. “Not a monk,” she reminded him, as pointless for the hundredth time as it had been the first. “And I’m not jealous either. Just... curious.”

“Uh _huh_.”

Sandy was squirming, characteristically uncomfortable with the scrutiny and clearly not wanting to invite more.

“I’m helping Monkey to work through his crippling fear of water,” she mumbled.

Monkey choked.

So did Tripitaka. “His _what_?”

“Crippling fear of water.”

Monkey shot her a glare that could freeze a volcano. “Seriously?”

Sandy nodded sagely. “Dreadful affliction.”

“So I’ve heard,” Tripitaka said, looking bemused. “How’s it going?”

“Not well.”

“She’s a terrible teacher,” Monkey seethed, venting a little bit of his frustration in the guise of playing along. “No idea what she’s doing. I don’t think she even knows what ‘help’ means.” He waved a hand, dismissive and a little cruel. “I’m thinking about just giving up on the whole thing.”

That shut her up.

She stared at him for a second or two, then blanched deathly pale, hunched her shoulders, and whispered, “Oh.”

It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, in truth. She’d responded so poorly to all of his efforts thus far, Monkey had all but assumed she’d be happy to be free of him. Their efforts clearly wasn’t doing any good, and he was starting to suspect she trusted him less now than she had before they’d started. Even in his usual handsome god-shape, she gave him a wide berth now, like she was afraid he’d transform into some monstrous hellhound right in front of her face.

That might have been tempting if she was Pigsy.

But she wasn’t.

And Monkey knew that kind of fear too well. He understood it, the crippling, body-seizing paralysis of being hunted by things you couldn’t get away from.

It didn’t matter that she was a god. He knew that too. It didn’t matter that she could smite anything that came at her, probably without even breaking a sweat.

It was the feeling.

Monkey, who had fled to the seven corners of the world to hide from pursuers, really, really understood that.

He thought he was doing her a favour, offering to cut it off before it got too hard, too painful for them both.

But she was looking at him now — and then ducking her head and pointedly not looking at him — like he’d just thrown his hands up and given up on her completely. Like that stung, maybe. Like his approval actually meant something to her.

And maybe it did. She wouldn’t have agreed to it if some little bit of her didn’t care what he thought.

Monkey sighed.

“Fine,” he groused, with all the melodrama he could muster. “I take it back.”

That worked. She straightened up, regaining what little colour she’d had before, and for a fraction of a second he thought she looked relieved.

“Good,” she said, recovering herself swiftly. She still wasn’t looking at him, but he caught the faintest hint of inflection in her voice, as close to actual feeling as she ever let slip. Given her usual empty tonelessness, it said a lot. “Because I’ve been told I’m a remarkable teacher.”

“Yeah?” He snorted, exaggerating just a little for her sake. “Who told you that, your rat friends?”

Sandy drew herself up. “At least rats aren’t afraid of water.”

Watching them both, Tripitaka looked vaguely pained, like she didn’t know whether to laugh or give up and just leave them to their own devices.

“Eat your breakfast,” she said at last, mostly to Sandy, who seldom ate without extensive prompting. “And while you’re at it, maybe come up with a more convincing lie.”

Sandy pouted. “I’m quite happy with the one I have,” she muttered, then seemed to realise what she’d said. “That is, if it were a lie. Which it’s not.”

Monkey swallowed a smirk. “Don’t worry about it, monk,” he said to Tripitaka. “If you can’t trust her — and seriously, who in their right mind would? — you can at least trust _me_ , right?”

Somehow, that didn’t set her mind at ease.

“Just try not to break anything,” she sighed.

Monkey, guessing that was as close to a blessing as she was likely to give, accepted it with a grin.

*

So they tried again.

This time, taking a leaf out of the Master’s book — patience and kindness and blah blah blah — Monkey sat down on the grass, ran a hand through his hair, and patted the space next to him.

“Take a seat,” he said.

Sandy stared at him, looking nearly as horrified as she had that first day when he’d made himself massive and scary on purpose.

She didn’t join him, didn’t move at all, just stayed where she was, looking trapped and confused and understandably suspicious.

“Why?”

Monkey clenched his teeth. Patience, he reminded himself. _Patience_.

“I’ve been trying to do this my way,” he explained, levelling with her. “Going from one extreme to another, trying to force a reaction, get it all over with quick and efficient and whatever else. And that’s obviously not working. I mean, obviously, right?”

She conceded with a pout. “Perhaps not.”

“Right.” He yanked up a fistful of grass, letting it fall between his fingers, a necessary distraction from his shortcomings. “So I figured, maybe we should try it your way instead. You know, since you’re such a ‘remarkable teacher’ and all.”

The attempt at levity worked. She laughed a little breathlessly, then shook her head. “I might have lied about that.”

“No kidding.” Still, he sobered swiftly, keeping on track. “Seriously, though. You’re the one who’s feeling all this stuff. Why don’t you tell me how you want to play it? How I can make it easier for you to... you know, to, uh...”

Sandy swallowed, an audible, unpleasant-sounding gulp. “...trust you?”

It stung, hearing it out loud. Monkey was used to being adored and admired by everyone. It made him feel uncomfortable, having to work for it.

“Sure.” He forced himself to shrug, to feign indifference. “How do we do that?”

Sandy looked a little uncomfortable herself. Like she hadn’t really thought about it until then. Monkey wondered if maybe the whole situation was more complicated than he’d first thought. Probably should have figured, all things considered; Sandy had a knack for making things more complicated than they needed to be.

Finally, unsteadily, she said, “I do trust you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Actually, yes.” Her sigh, deep and ragged, sounded like it hurt. “It’s them I don’t trust. _Dogs_. With their teeth and claws and...”

She trailed off, lifting a shoulder in what she probably figured was a mirror of Monkey’s shrug.

He mulled that over for a bit, turning it around and around in his head.

“Is it just the pet thing?” he asked at last. “I mean, you don’t have any problem with teeth or claws when I’m a tiger or a dragon or whatever other awesomeness. So is it just... I don’t know, ‘people dogs’, that get you? The kind they would’ve...”

He trailed off, not wanting to say it.

Sandy gave no immediate answer. The look on her face, sad and sort of vulnerable, said she probably didn’t have an answer to give. Just another one of her oddities, Monkey supposed; there were parts of herself she knew so intimately she could talk about them for days, and other parts that seemed a mystery even to her.

Not that he didn’t understand that feeling himself sometimes — he could never quite figure out whether it was authority figures in general that he had problems with, or just the kind that made him think of the Master — but how was he supposed to help her when she couldn’t figure out what kind of help she needed in the first place?

 _Patience_ , he told himself again, and felt a pang in his chest.

“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands together. “So, let’s try something like this…”

He took a breath, called his powers, and turned into a wolf.

Sandy stared at him.

Monkey watched her closely, blinking to adjust to his new vision. Hand still on her weapon, but loose and limp. Eyes narrowed, not wide; confused, yes, and still somewhat suspicious, but not paralysed, not panicky.

Good start.

He approached her slowly, carefully. Steady, cautious steps, keeping his head angled towards the ground so she could see that he meant her no harm. He felt her watching him, even with his eyes turned downwards; it was another reason why he enjoyed his canine forms so much, the keen, heightened awareness of the world around him. If he focused hard enough, he was sure he could hear her heartbeat.

She swallowed again, less effortfully this time. Then, very thoughtfully, she said, “You look ridiculous.”

Still, she was clearly unafraid of him in this form, stepping forward and crouching down in front of him, face to face and eye to eye. She didn’t touch him, but she was close enough now that she could if she wanted to. Close enough that he could see the veins thrumming under the surface of her too-white skin, feel her quick breath on his face, close enough to know that she was not frightened. 

It was more than they’d ever managed before.

Monkey flopped down in front of her, rolling onto his back, exposing his belly. Sandy quirked a brow at his shamelessness, then shook her head and retreated to a safe distance. Her loss, Monkey thought, lolling around in the dirt and leaves. She clearly had no desire to join him or engage with him, but at least she wasn’t giving him that pinched, scared, miserable look this time.

Progress? Progress!

As if reading his canine thoughts, Sandy nodded and said, mostly to herself, “Just people dogs, apparently.”

Monkey yipped his approval and slipped back into his own skin.

“Good to know,” he said, dusting himself down. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a starting point.”

Sandy nodded, hummed, then carefully set her weapon aside.

“Another,” she said, jaw set with determination. “Something still wild, but... um, less? If you can.”

Monkey nodded, sifting through the different options in his head, one by one. He wasn’t generally the type to take requests, but why stop now they were finally getting somewhere?

“All right,” he said at last, and cracked his knuckles for dramatic effect. “Try this one on for size.”

*

It felt good to actually be making progress.

They cycled through maybe half a dozen breeds of wild canine, Monkey all but exhausting his repertoire to gauge her different responses. He let Sandy study him for as long as she needed, fidgeting only a little bit under her intense, single-minded scrutiny. She never got close enough to touch him — a sensible precaution with wild animals, he supposed — but she showed none of the trapped-animal panic he’d seen as a household hound.

No fear. No suspicion, no wariness, no wide-eyed horror or crouching or clutching her weapon.

Wild dogs, like wild cats, like bears or dragons or crocodiles or wyverns, bothered her not at all.

So they worked from there.

Monkey’s familiarity with domestic animals was rather more limited, so he started doing research. Real research, the kind of the Master always used to beg him to take seriously. He took notes in the towns and villages they passed through, tested out new forms and shapes that he’d never bothered to learn (because really, what was the point when he already knew which ones the others liked best?), even subtly grilled Tripitaka for any pet-type hounds she’d had or learned about in her youth.

Tripitaka eyed him curiously, when he asked, but if she suspected anything amiss she didn’t press. She just said, “You’re really taking this transformation thing seriously, aren’t you?”

Monkey preened. “Like you said: it’s a shame not to put such an _amazing talent_ to good use. Right?”

She lit up a bit at that, pleased that he’d actually paid attention to something she’d said, and happily shared what little information she had without any further suspicion.

His notes grew. So did his interest, and in spite of himself he found that he sort of enjoyed the task.

If the Master could see him now, actually knuckling down and working hard on a project, eager to learn and striving to be better, he would never have believed his eyes.

His research bore fruit, too, which made it all the more fulfilling. He started to cross-reference wild and tame dogs, their behaviours, their features, everything he could think of, making note of domestic pets that resembled their wild counterparts more closely than others. Making note, too, of Sandy’s responses on the rare occasion she let them show in company. Learning which kinds of dogs affected her the most and the least, putting that into practise during their sessions.

Slow progress. Patient progress.

But still: progress!

His transformations improved as well, becoming smoother and easier, more effortless and thus more comfortable. He might have put that down to the increase in training — Tripitaka had ben right about that: not having to hide his powers from the others made it so much easier to work on them — but he had a sneaking suspicion it was not her advice at play here but someone else’s.

He could practically hear the Master’s voice in his head, kind and patient and painful, encouraging him to learn everything he could about the creatures whose shapes he stole so thoughtlessly.

_How can you expect to master your powers if you won’t take the time to truly understand them?_

Maybe he’d had a point about that.

That, and the patience thing. And the ‘best to learn slowly’ thing. And the ‘blessing to hold knowledge, and to share it’ thing. And— 

Maybe, Monkey thought sadly, he should have listened more attentively when he had the chance.

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

They experimented together, working through all his pooled research.

Monkey would transform into a wolf or a fox or a coyote, something wild and wholly disconnected from human contact, untouched by her unpleasant memories or experience. He would transform, then stand as quiet and still as he was able, letting Sandy approach him in her own time, at her own pace. Then, when they were both as comfortable as they were likely to get, he would slowly — carefully, _patiently_ — shift himself into something domestic, a pet or a farm hound, careful to select the ones that resembled their wild counterparts as closely as possible, to cushion the impact.

Slowly. Carefully. Patiently.

Bit by bit, wild to tame, for her and for him too. It was a gradual, laborious transition, and one that tested every last bit of Monkey’s patience and discipline. Finding the perfect moment, reading her body language, learning to tell when it was safe to transform, to go from being a thing that didn’t scare her at all to one that paralysed her, trying to hold on to as much of the old one as he could, helping her to adjust to the newer, scarier form.

Practice. Practice. Practice.

Slowly, patiently, it worked.

She still froze up, still clung to her weapon like a lifeline, but more and more as their sessions went on the reactions became less extreme. Automatic, an instinctive response to the sight of something so violently ingrained in her memory, but then slowly, cautiously ebbing away into something softer. Monkey would see the recognition flash in her eyes, then the fear, then the paralysis—

And then, with great effort, she would shake it off and nod, letting him continue his approach.

If he thought it amusing that she was less wary of a great hulking wolf than a yapping little house-pup, he kept that to himself. All that mattered was that she was starting to get better.

If he took pride in being the one to accomplish it...

That part, he wasn’t quite so willing to keep quiet.

“You’re smirking,” she accused, as they traipsed back to camp after a particularly successful session. Then, pouting, “It’s not a flattering look, you know.”

Monkey did not agree. “I think it makes me look refined.”

“I think it makes you look arrogant.” She crossed her arms, taking great juvenile pleasure in jabbing his ribs with her elbow. “And smug.”

“Like I said. ‘Refined’.”

She snorted, then swiftly sobered, the click in her throat as she swallowed giving away her more serious thoughts. “Do you think, um...”

And stopped.

Monkey tilted his head, studying her face closely. Gauging, learning, showing patience. Then, guessing at the source of her hesitation, “You want to try something a bit tougher?”

“I...” Her jaw whitened. “Possibly.”

The uncertainty was telling, but Monkey pretended not to notice. “Sure,” he said, feigning indifference. “I could try the puppy thing again?”

“ _No_.” She actually looked a bit sick at that. “I mean. Um. No, thank you.”

Monkey snickered. “So you want me to sneak up on you in the middle of the night? Pounce on you while you’re sleeping, scare the life out of you?”

The withering look she shot him was, he had to admit, well deserved.

“I was thinking...” She hesitated again, chewing on her lip. Monkey watched her throat convulse again, the compulsive swallowing that so often marked her agitation. “Next time we train together, perhaps? The three of us as a... that is...”

He smirked. “As a _team_?”

That was Tripitaka’s word, and had received something of a lukewarm reception from the three gods: derision from Monkey, bemusement from Pigsy, discomfort from Sandy. She could barely bring herself to say it at all most days — like today, apparently — much less actually consider it a part of her everyday life.

To be a part of anything was strange to her, he knew. But a team, a family...

 _A pack_ , the dog part of Monkey thought.

He knew perfectly well what Sandy would have to say about _that_ word.

For his part, as someone who had always fancied himself as something of a solo player — too good by far for the nobodies on Jade Mountain — he could relate. He’d never needed anyone before now; it was weird, the way Tripitaka kept insisting they needed each other now.

Still, he indulged it because it seemed important to her. It surprised him that Sandy hadn’t done the same, given her devotion to all things monk-shaped, but maybe her old life still had a tighter hold on her than the newer, kinder one. He supposed he understood that as well, especially if the dog thing was any indication.

She certainly looked uncomfortable now, shuffling her feet and looking ill.

“Yes,” she mumbled, the sound more like a groan than a word. “As a that.”

Monkey graciously pretended not to notice her queasiness. “Sure. We can try something then, if you like. Come at you in a proper combat scenario, see what kind of progress we’ve actually made?” Her nod told him he had the right idea, and he pressed on, with as much tact as he could, “So, uh... wild animal or teeth-and-claws human-pet-thing?”

It still amused him, thinking ‘teeth and claws’ about those tame little fluffballs. But the words clearly resonated deeply with Sandy, who weighed the question very seriously. 

She didn’t answer him right away. Considering the options, testing her courage, her willpower. Staring down at her boots, then at the blade of her scythe, then, finally at his face.

“Pet,” she decided at last. “I, um...”

Monkey beamed. “You _trust_ me,” he crowed, triumphant and touched all at once. “Teeth and claws and all.”

“I...” Her attempt at a scowl was, frankly, pathetic. “Be quiet.”

Feeling his point was quite thoroughly made, Monkey obliged.

*

So they tried.

The next time Tripitaka insisted on one of her ‘team-building’ training sessions, Monkey took Sandy to one side and whispered in her ear, too low for the others to overhear, “How do you want to play this?”

“Hard,” she whispered back, without even a moment’s hesitation. “Frighten me. Corner me. Teeth, claws, all of it. You know my responses well by now: do things you think will make me panic. Just... um...”

She didn’t finish. Monkey tried to pierce her expression, to divine her feelings. She was characteristically closed-off, already seeming to retreat into the safe places inside her head, the way she did sometimes during their more arduous practice sessions. When he’d stumbled on a breed that hit on a particular memory or struck a particularly painful note, and she had to retreat or else shut down completely.

He hadn’t even transformed yet, but he could scent the fear coming off her in waves. The uncertainty, the wariness, the thought of being without a lifeline, unable to defend herself...

He told himself he didn’t understand. But he did.

They were both incredibly powerful beings, far more so than anyone who would dare assault them. To defend themselves would be to slaughter those whose only crime was to be frightened of things they didn’t understand. He understood why she’d held back, why she would force herself to feel helpless rather than do harm to the hounds or humans who came after her.

Not this time, though.

“Listen,” he said, slowly, patiently, carefully. “Feel free to, uh, lash out or whatever. Get as violent as you want. Be more animal than me, if that’s what you need to, uh, get through this.” Seeing how pale she was, how nervous, he punctuated the point with a charming, boyish wink. “You know I can take it, yeah?”

Relief flooded her features. “I’ll try not to. But thank you.”

And without warning, she threw her arms around him and hugged him until he couldn’t breathe.

*

It went well enough.

(Depending on who you asked.)

A typical enough training session for the most part, Monkey spent the first little whole bouncing and flipping and dancing between various animal forms and his own, experimenting with his skills and keeping his friends-teammates-whatevers on their toes as well. It was fun, not least of all because he was so far the best at everything there was little to do but bask in their inferiority.

Pigsy crashed out early, of course, just like he always did. Not dead or unconscious or roughed up too badly — Tripitaka took a pretty firm hand with that sort of thing after the first three or four times — but exhausted, worn out after a few minutes of getting thrown down and crawling back up again. He tapped out like the crybaby he was, muttering to himself about ‘saving his strength’, and that was that.

Then it was just the two of them.

Monkey granted Sandy only the briefest of looks — a gleam in his eye, a flash of his teeth, nothing more — and that was all the warning she got.

By this point in their training he had no shortage of domestic dog breeds to choose from, but instinct threw him into his favourite one almost without thought. Long limbs and feathered fur, it wasn’t really intimidating by any measurable standards, but it still made Sandy seize up like he’d just hurled all the power of the elements straight at her head.

Ironically, he could quite easily have done that and she likely wouldn’t have even batted an eyelid.

Tripitaka, watching from her usual spot on the sidelines, straightened up uneasily. “Monkey...”

Monkey ignored her.

He and Sandy faced each other for a beat or two, him circling, her frozen in place. Then, without even a moment’s warning — because that was what she wanted, what she’d asked for, what mattered — he pounced.

She went straight down, of course. Him on top of her, all teeth and claws just as she’d requested. Hackles up, a growl rumbling deep in his throat, slavering...

Their dozens of practice sessions had given him pretty good control over his baser animal instincts, at least most of the time, but the scent of her fear was an addictive thing, and the dog part of him was hungry.

He held it in check.

Sandy whined, a horrible, broken sound, but Monkey did not let up. Controlled and careful, he lowered his head, let his teeth graze her throat, the place where his staff found its mark that day in the sewer when they first met.

 _Come on,_ he thought, communicating in the only way he could in this form. _You’ve got this._

Tripitaka shouted his name again, louder this time. “Monkey, that’s enough! Let her get up!”

“No.”

This not from him, but from Sandy.

Chest heaving, body shock-still, she was looking him squarely in the eye. Paralysed, yes, but determined to push through it. Allowed to fight back, maybe for the first time in all those years. Comfortable in knowing she would do him no harm as she would a real dog, that it was safe to finally lash out against a would-be hunter.

Monkey could smell Tripitaka’s anguish, her worry. “Sandy?”

“No,” she said again, stronger. “ You say that we’re a team, yes?”

Tripitaka made a strangled noise. “Of course. But that’s—”

“Exactly. So allow us to learn each other’s weaknesses as one.”

Monkey wagged his tail furiously, with enthusiasm.

He wasn’t the type to actually admit he was proud of someone else — especially not if it meant they were outshining him — but if he were, he would certainly admit it now.

Tripitaka thinned her lips, then sighed and nodded. “Go on, then.”

For a moment, they just stayed like that: Monkey breathing into her face, slavering, snarling, playing the part of every dog who’d ever come after her to defend their human while she lay still and frozen, her eyes impossibly wide but still fixed on his, recognising, remembering, knowing.

Then—

Then, in a burst of passion and power that would probably have unseated him even if he’d been himself, she shoved him off her with the haft of her scythe and swung the blade right at his face.

He leaped back, snapping teeth, raking claws.

She lunged, retreated, lunged, retreated. Three times, four, five, again and again and again. And still Monkey didn’t ease up, still he kept coming at her. Because she had told him to, because this was important to her, because he had offered to help and apparently this was what ‘help’ meant in her weird little world, because it was what she wanted, what she needed, and because he—

Because he had learned how to be patient.

And because that was important as well.

So it went on. Minutes, seconds, centuries, who knew? On and on and on, neither one of them budging, neither giving in, neither willing to step down.

No doubt it seemed pointless to the others, maybe even boring. But Monkey’s heightened hound-senses were smarter than Tripitaka’s human ones, or even Pigsy’s god ones, and he could sense things they could not.

Like, for example, the way Sandy’s nerves were getting looser the more they circled each other, the more she lunged and leaped back, the more actively she engaged with him. Like the way that overpowering fear-scent was slowly but surely getting less and less, ebbing away into focus and determination, into resolve and power and energy, into strength and will and passion...

And then, finally, into playfulness.

And that—

Yes, _that_. That was what they’d been working at, striving for, that was what Monkey had wanted for her, what Sandy had wanted for herself.

No fear, no panic. No suspicion, no mistrust, none of the dread he’d scented in her so often, the anticipation of assault, of violence, of pain.

Just this: a god and a dog, circling each other, lunging and retreating, alert and aware and nearly-maybe-sort-of equal, playing at combat.

It was perfect.

Instinct took over, then, the warm-hearted animal affection that came with being that particular breed of dog, human-bonded and domestic, the kind that frightened Sandy and no-one else, the kind that was made to feel devotion and loyalty to those under his protection. It was a body that had been made to care, to show affection and appreciation to his humans, his family, his pack.

Sandy wasn’t human, but she was family. She was a part of his pack, and Monkey couldn’t help himself. Proud and pleased, and maybe a bit overwhelmed himself, he leaped up and pounced.

Not the aggressive combat-pounce of before. Not the growling, snarling, hackles-up, teeth-bared pounce that spoke of danger and hunger, but the other kind, the human kind, the pet kind.

He pounced, knocking her down again, this time without teeth or claws, with just his big paws and his excited barks, his tail swishing as he nosed her face and slobbered.

It wasn’t the most dignified display of affection, true, but Sandy didn’t seem to mind too much. She didn’t smile, and she was clearly still uncomfortable — as she probably always would be; not even the Monkey King could perform miracles against all those years of experience — but she allowed him to paw and nose at her without struggling or freezing or complaining.

That alone would have been enough of a victory to keep him bragging for a week. Unimaginable just a few short days ago, and all thanks to him.

Then she reached up, breath held in and face pinched with nervousness, resting a shaking hand on his head... and slowly, carefully, began to pat him.

It was the briefest little thing, just a couple of faint, barely-there strokes, but he knew — because he could smell it, because he could see it, because he knew her — just how much it meant.

He leaped off of her, triumphant and giddy, and transformed back into himself with a flourish.

“You see, monk?” he crowed, taking a bow. “That’s how it’s done!”

Sandy, understanding precisely what he was trying to say, flushed hot.

Tripitaka, having no way to know what she’d just witnessed, did not.

She clapped politely a couple of times, then shook her head and said, exasperated but achingly fond, “I will never understand you, Monkey.”

Monkey bowed again, deeper.

“Just the way I like it,” he said, and grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.

*

Later, as the fire burned down and the cold came in, he shifted without a thought into his nightly fluff-hound, warm and well-insulated and cuddly.

A particular favourite with Tripitaka, the monk snuggled up to him instantly. Pigsy, rather less enamoured by the idea of playing happy families with Monkey but even less enamoured by the idea of freezing out of sheer stubbornness, swiftly followed suit.

Sandy didn’t move.

“Someone should stand watch,” she said, rather weakly.

Pigsy waved a hand. “It’s fine. No demons for leagues.”

“Wild animals, then.”

“Please.” He patted Monkey’s haunch, rather more affectionately than he’d probably ever admit. “Like there’s anything out there that’s even half as wild — or animal, come to that — as the two of you when you go at it.”

Sandy made a face. “Rude.”

“Uh huh. So you weren’t looking to tear each other’s throats out earlier, then?”

Monkey growled a warning, a low rumble that startled him into hasty silence.

Tripitaka, already burrowed deep into Monkey’s ample fur, yawned and said, “Do what you like, Sandy. Just do it quietly so the rest of us can sleep.”

She went very still, then, like she was making a point of settling in to sleep, but Monkey could feel her face twitching against his back, a well-hidden smile tugging at her lips.

Pigsy followed soon after, slipping earnestly into sleep after about two seconds of wriggling about. Monkey waited until Tripitaka’s breathing had evened out completely as well, until her smile fell away into the slack open-mouthed laziness that came with deep slumber.

He knew them so well in nights like this, their rhythms of breath and sound and motion; he could feel the moment they drifted off to sleep, the moment they snapped back to wakefulness, could even catch in their scent the nature of their dreams. He wondered if Tripitaka realised that it was on purpose, the times he kicked out his legs or tossed his canine head, waking her from a nightmare or a painful memory.

He wondered if Sandy would be brave enough to curl up around him with the others, if she would give him the chance to wake her, too, from hers.

He lifted his head, just slightly, just enough to catch the way she was watching him — them — like she didn’t really know the answer to that herself.

Part of him wanted to encourage her, to blink or whine or try one of a dozen little dog-tricks to invite her closer. But this was hers; they’d done enough together, and certainly enough today. Even if she chose to stay where she was, alone and shivering all through the night, to keep her distance as she had every other night before, they’d still achieved a major victory. He wouldn’t make it less by trying to insist on more.

Patience, he supposed. 

Funny, how it came almost naturally to him now.

More, that it worked.

Because she did approach.

Slowly, hesitantly, nervously. All those things, yes, but she did. 

He could see her eyes in the dark, pale and glimmering, as wide as they were the first time they tried. He could hear her shallow breathing, could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He could smell her nervousness, her discomfort, her—

 _Fear_.

Still there, yes. As it probably always would be, at least a little bit.

He doubted it would ever go completely. Chipped away, piece by piece, but ever present, ever there. Like his own memories of the Master, tainted by his death but blooming beautiful even now, preserved in his best and favourite student, alive in every moment Monkey tried to be kind or careful, every moment he learned to be patient.

The bad stuff would remain, he knew, always and indelible. But maybe it was enough that the good stuff made it a little less present, a little less sharp.

A little less teeth-and-claws.

He didn’t move when she lay down, settling beside him with the others. He didn’t react when she leaned in, letting her head rest against his shoulder, the tangles of her hair tickling his jaw.

He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t need to.

He closed his eyes, listened with all his canine senses as the tension slowly ebbed away, as her breathing slowed to match Tripitaka’s, Pigsy’s, and his own.

His team. His family.

His _pack_ , weird and wounded and wonderful.

And him, their protector.

He wrapped his long feathered tail around them all, and drifted off to sleep.

***


End file.
